All the time I was pregnant, I tried really hard—a couple of drinks, a couple of smokes, nothing really. But then you left me there and your parents ignored me and the hours were so long and so empty…
They made me have the baby in the house. Wouldn’t take me to the hospital, didn’t let the baby out. They told no one he even existed. Our secret, you called it, when you came back.
The house was cold and dark, too many drafts where there shouldn’t have been. It sucked the energy and happiness right out of me. I’d go around putting on lights and heat; your parents would go behind me switching them off again. They wouldn’t even let me take the baby for a walk. You’d slink off back to work and they’d lock me in the bedroom or the cellar because they knew I’d leave in a second if I could. I’d find one of my old friends and beg for a fucking wheelbarrow full to the brim with drugs, anything, anything at all.
It wasn’t only me; it was the baby too. Crying, all the time, all night, all day. Your parents would shut me in your old room with the baby. Lock us up to shut us up, me frantically shushing a screaming baby to stop them from getting angry with us. When they lost the house, their stuff was cleared out bit by bit, until there was nothing left but me, the baby, the locked door. I loved him, I did, our child—but I was so tired. Any sleep I did manage was broken by nightmares or I’d be woken by the rattles and groans and whispers of the house. And the baby got sick and kept crying until I… couldn’t. Not anymore.
My turn to leave. Out of the window, climbing down the tree, praying they wouldn’t hear me, that they wouldn’t lock me up again. I never meant to be gone so long. Thought it was days, not weeks, not months. I disappeared down the rabbit hole.
I called and you told me to meet you at the house, but when I got there it had been sold. Empty, I thought. The front door was open, though. I ran up and you were in your old room, standing next to the cot. It wasn’t a big cot: it was one of those basket things on a swing. Don’t remember what it was called, crap mother that I was.
You were there, a bunch of daisies wrapped in tissue in one hand, and the cot was quiet and the house was sold and I thought it was okay. I thought I’d stayed away long enough for everything to be okay again. That now your parents had gone, you were there to take me and the baby away and we’d leave the house and you would be the boy I thought you were again and I’d stop the drugs and things would be good, like they were meant to be.
But you were… not angry, I could have handled angry, would have welcomed it, the punch I deserved. You weren’t happy, you weren’t anything. I stood in the doorway and you faced me, rocking the cot (Moses basket? Is that what it’s called?) with one hand, cold and dark as the house.
The cot was empty.
“You left, you didn’t tell anybody. My parents didn’t know, so they didn’t come up. He was sick and you left.”
You looked at me and the anger was there then. “He died,” you said. “You neglected him and he died. You killed him.” You held out the bunch of daisies. “I’ve brought these to put on his grave.”
My skin was crawling and there was a hole inside me, black as night, growing and hurting. The tears, when they came, were so hot they burned my cheeks.
I shook my head, backed away from you. Backed away from that empty cot. No. No no no no.
I couldn’t.
I couldn’t stand—couldn’t…
My legs gave way and I sank to my knees. “Show him to me—let me see him.”
“Too late. We buried him. Better run away again,” you said, “before I tell the police you’re here, before I tell them what you did.”
I ran away from the house where I’d murdered my baby, murdered him by not loving him enough. It was me. I made it the Murder House way before Ian Hooper and John Evans did.
Sarah asked me if I had kids and I said no. But I did, once. I had a child I thought had died. I had a son.
I’ve gotten to the end of the corridor. This is not a dream. This was never a dream. There’s a door. There’s another door and this one is open. In the room is an empty cot. The cot was empty because the baby died. My baby. Baby powder, soft, warm skin, shock of black hair like silk, big gummy smile.
But.
He didn’t.
Didn’t die. He didn’t die. I didn’t run away and leave my baby to die. The cot is empty because Patrick stole my baby and gave him to someone else.
SARAH AND PATRICK—2000
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” He already has his jacket on and his hand is on the door. It’s not a real question. I can’t really say, yes, I mind. And I don’t, really. Of course college work isn’t as important as his meeting. And he wouldn’t have asked me if his babysitter hadn’t let him down, leaving without notice like that.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Like you said, it’s just until you can find another babysitter you can trust. I’ll catch up with college work.” Joe’s asleep, heavy in my arms, his long dark lashes fluttering on pink cheeks as he dreams baby dreams.
Patrick leans down to kiss me and I smile, memories of last night still fresh in my head. “Thank you,” he whispers.
Joe sleeps for an hour and I just sit staring at him the whole time. Have I ever seen a baby up close like this before? Maybe as a kid, the neighbors’ babies. His fingernails are so tiny, little miniature nails on fat starfish hands. Arms and legs with folds at the knee and elbow. And, oh, his skin is so soft. I can’t stop touching him—stroking his hair, kissing his cheeks, picking him up every time I pass.
It’s been two months and Patrick says he knows me now, and it’s true he smiles every time he sees me, this big grin that makes me melt, it really does. He’s such a beautiful baby, even more beautiful than Patrick, and I wonder what his mother looked like. I asked, but Patrick doesn’t have a photo. That’s sad. What’s he going to say to Joe when he asks about his mother as he grows up?
My favorite time is when I give Joe his bottle. He holds it with me and guzzles it down, but he stares up at me the whole time, dark eyes fixed on mine, and when I smile, because I can’t help but smile, he grins back, milk dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.
I fell in love with Patrick first, but it’s a close-run thing.
Patrick is struggling to find a decent babysitter so I’ve moved in here temporarily. Not that it’s a problem: I get to spend all night, every night with Patrick and all day, every day with Joe. Days spent in a dream of bottles and walks through the park, humming lullabies, diaper changes, baby talk, and cuddly toys. I’ve put away my sketchbooks and painting gear so Joe can’t get hold of it. It was Patrick’s idea, even though Joe’s still too young to crawl around picking up stuff. He’s right—it’s better to get into good habits early. Shift change is marked by Patrick’s return, the kiss on the neck that still makes me shiver, still makes me want to rip off his clothes the moment he comes into the room. There’s no space for anything in my life but Patrick and Joe, and I don’t want anything in my life but Patrick and Joe. Some days I don’t bother getting dressed. What’s the point when Patrick’s only going to undress me again as soon as gets home and Joe’s asleep?
We listen for Joe to go quiet and my mouth dries. Patrick leans across and kisses me; his hand slides under my T-shirt. My pulse races faster and faster as he pushes me down on the sofa and unbuttons his shirt. Sometimes I can’t wait. Sometimes I grab his shirt and pull it open, scattering buttons I have to find the next day, crawling on hands and knees, groping under chairs while Joe watches from his baby bouncer.
I don’t bother with makeup. Patrick doesn’t like it anyway—he always used to wipe away the kohl smudged around my eyes. So I’m not really surprised by Caroline’s reaction when she comes around.
“What the fuck?”
“Ssh—Joe’s sleeping.”
Caroline looks like a caricature of herself, an exaggerated picture of the Caro I know. Her hair is pink, a sharp cerise bob, her eyes lined with black; she has a blue stud in her nose.
I look d
own and see myself through her eyes: pajama bottoms and T-shirt, bare feet, mousy hair, no makeup, no underwear. I fade into the background while she hurts the eyes. The contrast is jarring.
“You dropped out?” she says, pacing the room.
“No, I’m just taking a break, helping Patrick out.”
She stops pacing and turns to face me. “It’s been nearly two months since you last came in.”
Two months? Has it really? That’s nearly a whole term missed.
“It’s temporary. I’ll be back.”
She’s staring at me and there are tears in her eyes. “This is all wrong,” she says. “It’s like Patrick and that baby are brainwashing you or something.” She takes my hands, holds them between hers. “Come back to the apartment. You can still visit Patrick and the baby. But come back with me, come back to college.”
“Don’t be silly. I want to be here. I need to be here. I feel… This is home, Caroline. I love him. I love them both so much.”
I hear a small cry from Joe’s room and glance back. “You’ll have to go,” I say, pulling my hands away from hers and nudging her toward the door. “I’ll call you, I promise.”
“Hold on, Sarah. Promise you’ll hold on.”
“Hold on to what?” I say, laughing.
“Hold on to you,” she says.
I smile and give her a hug. “Don’t be silly. Of course I’ll hold on to me. And I’ve always got you to remind me anyway, haven’t I?”
“Always,” she says.
I go back inside and lock the door, leaning against it with a sigh. She just didn’t like how different Patrick was from the rest of us, but he was different in a good way. He already had a proper home, a real career, and a child. Of course he was different; different wasn’t wrong.
I go to pick up Joe from his cot, cuddling him against my shoulder. He stops crying and lies against me, warm and heavy. I sing to him as we go through to the kitchen to warm a bottle. Anyway, what am I supposed to do? Go back to my student apartment and leave Joe behind? My arms feel empty if I put him down for five minutes. I couldn’t possibly leave.
CHAPTER 39
Anna races up the stairs and I stumble after her. I’m almost tempted to stay, to hide down here in the cellar, take my punishment and wait for it all to be over, wait for Patrick to tell me I can come out now. But I’ve been doing that the whole time, haven’t I? Passively waiting for it all to go away. Good girl, a voice whispers in my head, and I can taste the bitter pill on my tongue.
I hear voices in the house above me.
No. Wake up, Sarah. It’s not Anna’s job, it’s mine. I have to protect my family.
When I stagger up the stairs, Anna’s in the hall, white-faced, her hands over her mouth. I look past her and see Joe. He’s in the kitchen, half facing away from us, black hair in his face, looking like Patrick, looking like Anna. He’s standing there and he’s shaking and he has a knife in his hand, dripping blood onto the floor. There’s so much blood. I think Patrick told him and he’s done it, found an artery, cut himself too deep. There’s so much blood—how is he still standing?
“Joe…”
“He told me. He told me you’re not my real mum.”
“I wanted—”
I take a step closer, but he holds up the knife with a shaking hand. “Don’t. Don’t. He told me about my real mother—he told me she was a drug addict. He told me she didn’t want me, she never wanted me, that she left me to die.”
Anna makes a small noise behind me and I hear her footsteps retreating. Is she running away again?
“Joe, please—we need to get you bandaged up. You might need a hospital.”
He looks down at his blood-soaked hands and arms. “It’s not mine,” he says.
“What?”
He looks away from me, toward the kitchen. “It’s his. Dad’s. I think I killed him.”
SARAH AND PATRICK—2000
“Will you marry me?”
I laugh. I clap my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late, the sound is out there: it leaves my mouth and slaps him around the face. His face floods with color and I run over to him, stroke his cheek, as if the sting of my words was real enough to leave marks.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry, that was shock,” I say. “I love you so much, you know I do, but marriage? I’m sorry I laughed, but I was shocked. I’m only nineteen—I’m still at college.”
“Not really, not anymore. When’s the last time you went in? You live here now. You’re a full-time mother to Joe. We’ll get married, buy a house, and move out to the coast, have more children. I’ve always wanted to move back by the sea. It’ll be perfect.”
Yes, but… what about the map? The map of the world I showed him with all the places I want to visit circled or colored in? This was supposed to be temporary, like I told Caroline. I was going back to college, then to paint my way around the world. “I can’t. I have to finish college. And travel. I want to travel and—”
“But what about Joe?”
I freeze. I’d forgotten Joe in those few moments, sleeping across the hall in his cot, smelling of milk and baby powder, soft velvet belly full of formula and mashed carrots. Of course I wasn’t going to leave him.
“We have our whole lives to travel,” Patrick says. “You can go back to college when he’s older. We’ll do it all, everything you want, but we’ll do it together.”
Joe starts to cry.
“If you stay, you can be his real mother,” Patrick adds. “He’ll grow up and call you Mum and he’ll be yours forever.”
Joe’s crying is getting more strident. He’s teething again and must be in pain as well as hungry. He has two teeth now and eats solid food. He’s started babbling, that baby babbling, not real words, just sounds. But he says ma ma ma over and over, giving me that grin, snuggling into my neck, babbling ma ma ma, and every time he does, I swear it tugs on a string attached to my heart. Patrick leans closer.
“Please, Sarah, think about it. Think about us. What we have—you, me, and Joe. It’s so perfect. It could always be like this.”
Like this? Is this what I want? A stay-at-home mother at nineteen? But I look at Patrick and I’m swept away again, we’re dancing again, and I’m thinking of the nights Joe can’t sleep, when instead of being angry, Patrick gets up with me to see to him, and how, when I’m humming lullabies, he’ll wrap his arms around both of us and we’ll dance around the apartment, me humming, Patrick smiling, until Joe stops crying and gives us both that smile. I can’t leave him. I can’t leave either of them.
Patrick reaches into his pocket and pulls out a velvet box. He fumbles it open and takes out a diamond ring. He holds it out to me and there are tears in his eyes. “Please, Sarah. Marry me. Stay with me. Stay with us.”
SARAH, ANNA, PATRICK, AND JOE—NOW
He’s not dead. He’s lying on the kitchen floor, breathing too fast. There’s a rattling sound to it I don’t like, but he’s not dead. Joe is not a murderer. But my son is standing there with a knife in his hand, covered with his father’s blood. If I call an ambulance, Patrick will live, but the police will come and Joe will be locked up. My beautiful, fragile boy will go to jail.
And Anna? Where is Anna? She’s disappeared. I’m ice, head to toe. Oh, God, oh, God, what do we do? Anna could be calling the police—they could be racing here right now to take Joe away.
Joe drops the knife and the sudden clatter breaks my paralysis. I make the choice to leave Patrick where he is, the pool of blood around him, and pull Joe away from the kitchen, through to the downstairs bathroom, put his hands under the tap, and start washing the blood off, under water hot enough to scald my tender hands and his, ignoring the pain, adding soap, scrubbing until I can’t see a sign of blood. I glance up and recoil from the sight of my bloody face in the mirror. Does Joe even see? He just stands there shaking—I think he’s in shock.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” I say. “I’m sorry I never told you.”
“I thought at first he was telling m
e I was adopted, but that didn’t make sense. Hasn’t everyone always told me how much I look like him? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Your father said… he always said it would destroy you. He said you were fragile, and finding out what your real mother was like would break you. I believed him and I went along with it because I wanted you to be mine. I didn’t want you to be borrowed. He always said, if you grew up with Eve as a mother, what would you become? And with me as a mother, it would be better and it was, wasn’t it?” I’m saying it as a plea. I want him to tell me I did the right thing in believing Patrick’s lies for his whole life. “You’re painting, you’re going to college, you have Simon.”
He’s staring down at his shaking hands. “All my life I thought I looked like him but got the ability to draw and paint from you. He told me she died, my real mother. That it was because of me, depression after I was born. That she was a junkie, took an overdose and died because of me.” He tries to back away from me. “I understand why you don’t love me, I understand why no one can ever love me,” he says.
“No, don’t—don’t ever say that. I have always loved you,” I say. “I loved you from the first moment I saw you. You are my son, my baby, my child.” I wipe away his tears.
He looks at my bleeding, weeping hands and then at the state of my face. “What did he do to you? Oh, God, what did he do?” He steps away from me, rubbing his arms. “What have I done, Mum? I was so angry—the things he was saying. I didn’t think. The knife was on the side and I just grabbed it and…” He goes white, sways. I think he’s going to pass out and I put my arms around him.
“What are we going to do?” he says, and the terror in his voice has me gulping back panic of my own. “We have to call an ambulance. I didn’t—I never wanted him dead. I just wanted him to stop talking.”
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